We collected each other’s blood

and spread it like camouflage across our cheeks.

We fought like toy soldiers

until we were the only battered,

bruised ghosts in the toy-box.

And the smoke rose so high

that the day morphed into night.

So we lay down and heard someone say, “Sleep.”

But our wounds wept and our eyes stung

from the fire we created.

And some pessimist cried and another wept.

So we echoed, “Sleep,”

as we fumbled among the ashes

for each other’s hand.

And we held on as tight as we knew how,

as if that alone could spare us

from our ugly fate of repetition.